Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (70 page)

What I sought was not there.

If I was wrong, I had gone too far to cover myself with excuses. An outrageous affront to a Metella was a spectacular way, at least, to destroy one’s reputation and livelihood. I swallowed nervously and looked up into Caecilia’s eyes.

No glint of comprehension sparkled there, no quiver of amusement, but a smile as cold as frost crossed her lips. ‘I think,’ she said in a low, earnest voice, ‘that it must be this hand you wish to examine, Gordianus.’

She placed her left hand in my palm. I sighed with relief.

At the tips of her withered fingers I saw five perfect red-stained nails – perfect except for the nail of her forefinger, which was chipped on one side, leaving a broken gap near the tip. I took the bit of red fingernail I had found on the balcony and placed it into the gap, where it fit as neatly as a nut in a shell.

‘Then you
were
on the balcony tonight!’ said Rufus.

‘I never told you otherwise.’

‘But – then I think you should explain, Caecilia. I insist!’

It was now I who restrained Rufus, laying my arm gently across his shoulder. ‘No further explanation is called for. Beneath her own roof, Caecilia Metella is hardly obligated to explain her movements. Or her motives, for that matter. Or her methods.’ I looked down at the ruined corpse. ‘Sextus Roscius is dead, claimed by the goddess of this house to satisfy her own vengeance. No further explication is wanted. Unless, of course’ – I cocked my head – ‘the mistress of the house would condescend to explain the facts to three unworthy supplicants who have made a very long and tireless journey in search of the truth.’

Caecilia paused for a long moment. Gazing down at the corpse of Sextus Roscius, she at last allowed her disgust for him to show on her face. ‘Take him away,’ she ordered with a wave of her hand. The slave girls came running to bear the litter back into the sanctum. Clouds of incense roiled from between the doors as they opened and shut. ‘And you, Ahausarus – round up the garden slaves and have them start scrubbing the rear stairway. I want every trace of that man’s blood cleaned away by daybreak. Oversee the work yourself!’

‘But, Mistress—’

‘Go on!’ Caecilia clapped her hands and the eunuch sullenly departed. She then turned a disdainful eye on Tiro. Clearly she wanted no superfluous witnesses to her confession.

‘Please,’ I said, ‘let the slave stay.’

She scowled, but acquiesced. ‘A few moments ago, Gordianus, you asked me whether Sextus
filius
confessed to his father’s murder, or whether I overheard him. Neither is quite true. It was the Goddess who revealed the truth to me. Not in words and not in a vision. But it was her hand – I’m sure of it – that lifted me tonight from where I had prostrated myself in the sanctum, and led me down the corridors into the quarter of the house where the Roscii are lodged.’

She narrowed her eyes and clasped her hands together. Her voice became low and dreamlike. ‘I came upon Sextus
filius
in one of the hallways, staggering about in a stupor, too drunk even to notice me in the darkness. He was babbling to himself, alternately weeping and laughing. Laughing because he was acquitted and free. Weeping because of the shame and uselessness of his crime. His thoughts were rambling and disconnected; he would start to say a thing and then stop short, but there was no mistaking the meaning of his ravings. “I killed the old man, killed him as surely as if I’d struck the blows myself,” he kept saying, “arranged for the whole thing and counted the hours until he was dead. Murdered him, murdered my own father! Justice had me in the palm of her hand and I slipped away!”

‘To hear him speak that way made the blood burn in my ears. Imagine what I felt, standing hidden in that dark corridor, listening to Sextus
filius
confess to his crime with no one but myself to witness it – no one but myself and the Goddess. I felt her within me. I knew what I had to do.

‘It seemed that Sextus was on his way to his daughters’ bedchamber – why, I can’t imagine; he was so drunk I suppose he must have lost his way. He started to step inside, but that would have been no good to me, having him wake the girls. I hissed at him, and he gave a terrible start. I stepped closer and he began to cringe. I told him to step outside onto the balcony.

‘The moonlight was fierce, like the very eye of Diana. She is a huntress indeed this night, and Sextus was her prey. Moonlight captured him like a net. I demanded that he tell me the truth. He stared back at me; I could see that he was judging his chances of lying to me, just as he had lied to everyone else. But the moonlight was too strong. He laughed. He sobbed. He looked into my eyes and said to me: “Yes! Yes, I murdered your old lover! Forgive me!”

‘He turned his back to me. He was still several paces from the edge of the balcony. I knew I could never force him to the rail and over, even as drunk as he was and as strong as the moonlight had made me. I prayed to the Goddess to guide him closer to the rail. But the Goddess had led me so far, and I knew I would have to finish the matter on my own.’

‘So you reached up,’ I said, ‘and pulled the pin from your hair.’

‘Yes, the same one I had worn to the trial, decorated with lapis.’

‘And you drove it clear through his neck, from spine to throat.’

The muscles of her face went slack. Her shoulders slumped. ‘Yes, I suppose I did. He never screamed, only made a strange, gurgling, choking sound. I pulled the pin free; there was hardly any blood on it at all. He reached up to his throat and staggered forwards. He struck the rail, and I thought he would surely fall. But instead he stopped. So I pushed him, with all my strength. He never made a noise. The next thing I heard was the sound of his body striking the stairway below.’

‘And then you fell to your knees,’ I said.

‘Yes, I remember kneeling. . . .’

‘You peered over the edge and clutched the rail – clutched it so hard that you broke a fingernail against the stone.’

‘Perhaps. I don’t remember that.’

‘And what became of the pin?’

She shook her head, confused. ‘I think I must have cast it into the darkness. I suppose it’s lost among the weeds.’ Having told her tale she was suddenly emptied of all her vigour. Her eyes flickered and she drooped like a withered flower. Rufus was instantly at her side. ‘Dear boy,’ she whispered, ‘would you see me to my chambers?’

Tiro and I took our leave without ceremony, to the smell of incense and the muffled wailing of the slaves within the sanctum.

‘What a day!’ Tiro sighed as we stepped inside his master’s house. ‘What a night!’

I wearily nodded. ‘And now, if we’re lucky, we might get an hour of sleep before the sun comes up.’

‘Sleep? I can’t possibly sleep. My head is spinning. To think, this morning Sextus Roscius was still alive . . . and Sulla had never heard of Cicero . . . and I honestly believed—’

‘Yes?’

In answer he only shook his head. Cicero had disappointed him terribly, but Tiro would not say a word against him. I followed him into his master’s study, where a lamp had been lit awaiting his return. He glanced about the room and walked to the pile of scrolls that Sulla had knocked from their table.

‘I might as well straighten these now,’ he sighed, kneeling down. ‘Something to do.’

I smiled at his energy. I turned towards the atrium and studied the play of moonlight on the sand. I breathed deep and let out a great yawn.

‘I’ll be leaving with Bethesda tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I suppose I’ll see you then; or perhaps not, if Cicero has some errand for you. It seems long ago that you came to my door, doesn’t it, Tiro, though it’s been only a few days. I can’t remember a case with so many twists and turns. Perhaps Cicero will use me again, or perhaps he won’t. Rome is a small place, in a way, but I might not see you again.’ I suddenly had to clear my throat. It was the moonlight, I thought, making me sentimental. ‘I suppose I should tell you now, Tiro – yes, here and now, while it’s quiet and the two of us are alone – I should tell you that I think you’re an exceedingly fine young man, Tiro. I speak from the heart, and I think Cicero would agree. You’re fortunate to have a master who values you highly. Oh, I know, Cicero may sometimes seem brusque, but – Tiro?’

I turned about to see him lying on his side among the scattered scrolls on the floor, quietly snoring. I smiled and stepped softly towards him. In sleep, beneath the mingled lamplight and moonlight, he looked truly childlike. I knelt and touched the smooth skin of his brow and the shock of soft curls above. I took the scroll that lay in his hand. It was the crumpled copy of Euripides that Sulla had been reading and had thrown across the room. My eyes fell upon the chorus’s summation:

The gods have many guises.
The gods bring crises to climax
while man surmises.
The end anticipated
has not been consummated.
But god has found a way
for what no man expected.
So ends the play.

XXXIV

I was up by mid-morning, despite my late hour to bed. Bethesda was already long awake and had my few things gathered together. She hurried me into my clothes and watched me like a cat while I ate a few bites of bread and cheese; she was ready to be home.

While Bethesda waited impatiently in morning sunlight in the peristyle, Cicero called me into his study. Tiro was asleep in his room, he said, and so Cicero himself took down a box of silver and a bag of loose coins, and counted out my fee, exact to the last sesterce. ‘Hortensius tells me it’s customary to deduct for the meals and lodging I’ve given you,’ he sighed, ‘but I wouldn’t think of it. Instead—’ He smiled and added ten denarii to the pile.

It is not easy to put unpleasant questions to a man who has just paid you a handsome fee, and a substantial bonus as well. I modestly lowered my eyes as I gathered up the coins and said, as offhandedly as I could, ‘There are still a few points, Cicero, that puzzle me. Perhaps you could enlighten me.’

‘Yes?’ His bland smile was infuriating.

‘Am I correct in assuming that you knew much more about this case than you told me when you hired me? That perhaps you even knew about the proscription of Sextus Roscius
pater
? That you knew Sulla was in some way tied to it all, and that there would be grave and immediate danger to any man investigating the whole squalid affair?’

He shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘Yes. No. Perhaps. Really, Gordianus, all I had to go on were whispers and fragments; no one would tell me all they knew, just as I didn’t tell you everything I knew. The Metelli thought they could use me. To some extent they did.’

‘Just as you used me – as bait? To see if a stray dog sticking his nose in the Roscius affair would be threatened, attacked, killed? As I very nearly was, more than once.’

Cicero’s eyes flashed, but his smile was indestructible.

‘You’ve emerged unscathed, Gordianus.’

‘Thanks to my wits.’

‘Thanks to
my
protection.’

‘And does it really not disturb you, Cicero, that the man you defended so successfully was guilty all along?’

‘There is no dishonour in defending a guilty client – ask any advocate. And there is some honour in embarrassing a tyrant.’

‘Murder means nothing to you?’

‘Crime is common. Honour is rare. And now, Gordianus, I really must bid you farewell. You know the way out.’ Cicero turned and walked from the room.

The day was warm but not unpleasant. At first Bethesda seemed skittish back in the house on the Esquiline, but soon she was busy going from room to room, restoring the place to her liking. In the afternoon I accompanied her down to the marketplace. The bustle of the Subura swept about me – the cry of the vendors, the odour of fresh meat, the rush of half-familiar faces through the street. I was happy to be home again.

Later, while Bethesda prepared my supper, I took a long, aimless stroll through the neighbourhood, feeling the warm breeze on my face and turning my eyes to the pale golden clouds above. My thoughts drifted to the rooftop of Titus Megarus’s house beneath the stars; to the hot sunlight flooding Cicero’s atrium; to the House of Swans and the depths of Electra’s eyes; to a glimpse of young Roscia’s naked thigh as Tiro desperately clutched her and moaned against her throat; to the broken body of Sextus Roscius, who had brought together all these disparate things and cemented them with his own blood and that of his father.